


Parfum

by andsowefell



Category: Hannibal Lecter Tetralogy - Thomas Harris
Genre: BAMF Clarice Starling, Bottom Hannibal, F/M, Post-Hannibal, Prompt Fill, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-20
Updated: 2015-09-20
Packaged: 2018-04-22 13:42:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4837349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andsowefell/pseuds/andsowefell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarice finds herself again in Hannibal's House a second time, and this time, Krendler isn't there to watch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Parfum

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [hannibsls](hannibsls.tumblr.com) on Tumblr, in response to [this post](http://lysande.co.vu/post/124237642909/taking-prompts).

Just before she makes her way downstairs to the dining room, Clarice stretches and takes a quick inventory of her surroundings.   
The room Hannibal (for she has no doubt he is her host; he’s the only one she knows who would kidnap her to ask her to dinner) has left her in is elegant and minimalistic. It makes her think of modern Scandinavian furnishing, all dark paneling, white walls, and pale golden accents, everything placed with incredible taste and skill.  
Vanilla and bergamot hang subtly in the air. Clarice inhales. However disgusting Hannibal may be, this thoughtfulness of his is oddly comforting in her hard time.   
She picks up a tiny flask of perfume from the armoire, weghs it in her hand, and sniffs the neck experimentally. Pomegranate, and vanilla, again, and something she thinks might be patchouli. She squirts the most miniscule of drops onto the tip of her finger, smells that, and decides that yes, she wants to wear it.  
Thus equipped for her dinner with Hannibal, Clarice tentatively begins down the stairs, the soft suede bottom of her slippers hushing over the smooth teak steps. Her long white dress flows around her legs, and she knows somehow that, once Hannibal has seen her, he won’t be able to stop staring. Something about the thought is strangely attractive.  
And there he is, in the entrance to the dining area, before an immaculately laid table, looking handsome in black and white, his eyes glittering warmly. Clarice swallows; this is nothing like what she expected it to be.  
“You look lovely,” Hannibal praises gently, that captivating accent bleeding through in every word. Clarice smiles, not wanting to give in to the compliment too quickly, but she is no match for Hannibal; in a moment’s notice, he has taken her to his arm and led her to the far end of the table, proffering a seat. She sits.  
“What’s for dinner?” she asks, taking a stab at conversation. Hannibal shrugs and makes a seesawing gesture with his hand, _comme ci comme ça_.   
“I haven’t made dinner yet, only the aperitif. I was wondering whether you would like to choose your course, Clarice.”  
Clarice thinks. The only example of Hannibal’s cooking she has ever eaten was bizarre and sick and delicious, in a terrible way. She wants nothing to do with it.  
“Seafood, please,” she finds herself demanding out of nowhere. “Shrimps?”  
“Are prawns acceptable?” Hannibal asks and raises and eyebrow as though he already knows the answer. Clarice nods.  
“Prawns, sautéed in butter and garlic marinade, with parsley and dill? And perhaps grilled zucchini?” Hannibal suggests. Clarice can’t help rolling her eyes.  
“You’re the boss,” she accedes sarcastically, but the delighted little quirk of Hannibal’s lips shows how seriously he takes her praise. He begins rooting around in an ultramodern freezer, finally coming up with frozen prawns and garlic, and then retrieves a stick of butter from the refrigerator. In the middle of this, he stops short, walks smoothly to the sitting room, and clicks a button on an incredibly high-end stereo system. A stunningly beautiful piano piece Clarice can’t begin to recognise weaves melodies in the air.  
Entertainment provided for, Hannibal returns to the kitchen, heats the stove with something not unlike a flourish, and sets a copper kettle filled with water onto the stovetop. He dumps eight or nine prawns the size of tennis balls into the kettle rather unceremoniously, boils them, and transfers them to a pan, which is already hot and full of melted butter.  
Hannibal continues cooking in silence for several minutes, and Clarice finds herself painfully bored after a while, until he comes to the table. He’s laden down with plates, and Clarice rushes to help.  
“The food smells wonderful, Hannibal. You shouldn’t have,” she smiles. He returns the gesture, rearranges the plates on the table, and sits across from her.  
“So,” Clarice tries. Hannibal’s face grows stoic, almost icy.  
“Try the prawns,” he suggests. Clarice tries the prawns. They’re sublime. She tells him so.  
“There’s wine, if you’d like some,” Hannibal offers. “Saint-Estèphe, or Pètrus.”  
“I’d like the Pètrus, please,” Clarice says and tilts her head slightly to the left, exposing the arch of skin where blood pulses and her scent is strongest. Hannibal’s nostrils flare for a split second, then he recomposes himself.  
“I’ll get it,” he murmurs.  
Clarice smiles, amused. “Hannibal, why’re you so nervous?”  
“I haven’t the slightest clue,” Hannibal admits, suddenly uneasy, and sets the bottle of wine before her, an almost sheepish expression on his face.  
Clarice laughs softly, watches him uncork the bottle with expert skill and fingers that tremble, and he doesn’t bother to test its bouquet, instead simply pouring it into her beautiful cut-crystal glass, dark red filling the clear bowl halfway.   
“Dr. Lecter,” she insists. Hannibal’s hand quivers just barely long enough to spill a droplet of wine onto the starched white tablecloth.  
“Clarice,” he spits, eyes flying sparks, nostrils wide like those of an animal at hunt, and sits in his chair with grace borne of effort and suppressed anger.   
Clarice feels herself grow impatient. He’s cooked for her, he’s lit candles and played beautiful music for her, he’s given her first-class wine, he’s dressed up for her. And now, he is all but hostile.  
She decides she wants to wait no longer. Instead of drinking the proffered wine, Clarice stands, moves to a chair beside Hannibal’s, and sits there instead. He growls low in his chest and turns away from her, and she catches his jaw, tilts his face toward her own, and kisses him.  
A guttural breath stutters out of Hannibal’s mouth at the contact; he breathes her in deeply, then he’s testing her mouth with his tongue, momorising textures and flavours, his teeth grazing her bottom lip as she curls her fingers into the longer hairs at the nape of his neck. He’s warm, his chest and stomach pressing into her own, and his arms fit perfectly around her shoulders.  
When they break to breathe, he is flushed and panting, and she is grinning.  
“Clarice,” he sighs her name again, and leans his head back, eyes closed.  
“I believe you asked me to dinner, Hannibal,” Clarice reminds him. “Let’s eat.”  
His hungry eyes never quite leave her face, and after an excellent meal, he leads her to his room.  
It’s the most sensuous two hours Clarice ever remember spending in her life.

**Author's Note:**

> Prompts are still open if anyone wants a fic


End file.
